


Buttsex with Sherlock and John

by lily_winterwood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mpreg, Parody, Terribly-Described Sex in the Name of Parody, vulgarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:39:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly as it says on the tin. A parody of A) Sherlock/John smut, B) bad smut, and C) all of the above. Apologies to Mofftissson and co for the utter vulgarity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buttsex with Sherlock and John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hedgiehairdresser](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hedgiehairdresser).
  * Inspired by [The Physics of Fan-Fic Sex](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8863) by mallamun (Tumblr). 
  * Inspired by [Buttsex: the Musical](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8864) by Kaasen. 



It is just another ordinary day at 221B Baker Street.

Oh, who are we kidding? It is far from just another ordinary day at 221B Baker Street. Because you see, even though the day starts very perfunctorily with John being woken up at some ungodly hour by Sherlock shooting the wall (it’s a surprise Mrs Turner and her married ones haven’t been around complaining yet) and then kept awake by Sherlock playing Concerto for a Microwaved Cat on his precious Stradivarius for three hours (on repeat), it is going to end very un-ordinarily. Because the title says so.

Luckily it is the weekend, so John doesn’t have to go to the surgery – but then again he does do locum work, which means that he sometimes doesn’t even have to go in during regular hours. Obviously some American watchers may not have understood that. But that’s not the point; the point is that Sherlock really ought to have a case, correct? Because otherwise he will tear down all of Baker Street in a hunt for drugs, correct?

After all, why else would he shoot the walls?

Well, at that convenient moment a Generic Person™ walks in and offers Sherlock a case. Which is fine and dandy except the title of this story is “Buttsex with Sherlock and John”, not “Murders with Sherlock and John”. So naturally the case is solved in a second, while John is in the shower.

And he really ought to lock the door when he showers.

So now Sherlock has a boner. And it’s a huge, throbbing boner, which is surprising for the most part because he’s supposed to be married to his work – all the cracks about John being his work notwithstanding – and very much emotionally… deficient. In fact the entire series is supposed to be about how John humanises him, correct? Sherlock Holmes is just about the last person anyone in-universe would expect to get a raging hard-on for someone, but hey, it’s John.

You see, Sherlock Holmes is, for some mad, unexplainable reason, very much a Johnsexual. Whether or not this means he also gets turned on by other Johns like John Barrowman and John Egbert remains to be seen. But for the purposes of simplicity, we’ll say that he’s John Watson-sexual.

Because there’s nothing sexier than a middle-aged guy in a jumper who gets likened to hedgehogs on a regular basis.

Yes, despite the fact that there’s an ongoing joke about John Watson being made out of kittens chiselled out of marshmallows and glued together with jam, for the purposes of this story it suffices to say that underneath the adorable oatmeal jumper, John Watson basically has Chris Hemsworth’s body. Post- _Thor_ Chris Hemsworth’s body.

And that is one smokin’ body. So obviously Sherlock Holmes has an erection.

The problem is, at that moment another Generic Person™ comes in with a problem for Sherlock, meaning that poor Sherlock has to live with a boner for a couple of hours or so because this is a very interesting problem and the author would like to have some uncomfortable shifting and UST going on around here.

Oh, and, by the way, John’s out of the shower. Never mind the Generic Person™; he’s out of the shower in nothing but a towel. With water dripping down his gorgeous Chris Hemsworth-worthy abs.

At this point Sherlock’s dick has gone beyond rock hard and into Little Iron Man.

The case takes the rest of the morning and quite a bit into the afternoon too, so that it’s conveniently evening when Sherlock and John finish the case and set out to go back to Baker Street, and somehow all this time Sherlock has been nursing his Little Iron Man. Yes, for over four hours. Perhaps he ought to check into a hospital?

But that doesn’t matter, because during the case John was watching Sherlock do his thing with the deductions and stuff, and he was thinking about how nice it’d be for Sherlock to deduce him like one of his dead girls. So now John Watson also has a boner – a raging bull of a boner that’s charged a red-flag and is now pinning the poor matador to the wall. Mm, death by penis.

Going back to the original topic, however.

So somehow Sherlock has been nursing a boner that every user of Viagra wishes he could sustain and is aching for John’s dick up his ass. Oh, are we being too crude? Fine. Sherlock has been nursing a meat-sword-at-attention and is aching for John to make sweet, sweet love to his chocolate seastar. Except he thinks that John is not a Holmosexual and therefore would shun the fuck out of him if Sherlock ever dared to proposition in such a way. Cue tense, UST-riddled stares across a taxicab on the way back to Baker Street.

Luckily for them the author does not know how annoying London traffic can get so they’re home in three minutes. Which is good, because Sherlock’s boner has been going on for just about… twelve hours? Give or take a couple of hours?

 _That_ is worrisome.

But never mind the UST – we now get to the interesting, awkward segment of this tale! After Sherlock and John clamber into their flat, dazed and happy after a nice good case, someone decides that, oh, to hell with angsty staring and pining and longing and smooches the other full on the face.

Because Sherlock has broken the world record for longest boner (possibly?), he gets the honour of first move.

And John feels it.

And he’s like, “WOAH.”

And Sherlock’s like, “yeah, I kinda nursed this for the entire day. So fuck me maybe?”

Cue more smooching, of course, and said smooching makes John even harder so it’s as if every bit of blood in his body has migrated southward at a rate fast enough to rent a hole in the fabric of space and time. Obviously it’s time to move the smooching upwards, up seventeen stairs to the sitting room. And then to John’s room for the quote-unquote “actual” sex.

Because heavens forbid that oral or manual sex be considered actual intercourse.

You can probably imagine Sherlock’s dick screaming “I’M FREE!” the instant they finally get the pants down, which would make it fortunate, then, that Sherlock’s dick is incapable of speech. Poor thing’s been cooped up in Sherlock’s trousers for twelve hours; it must feel so relieved.

And then John unrolls his dick, and Sherlock’s goes all “OH SHIT.”

Some people think measurements are absolutely necessary when writing sex scenes. However, that is totally not the case. If someone slips and says that John’s dick is five metres long, that would provide a very interesting mental image, wouldn’t it?

So yes, unrolling is pretty apt, because wow. John has, like, this fleshy fire hose attached to his Chris Hemsworth abs.

  


_(visual by the lovely hedgiehairdresser!)_

  


We’re not quite sure how Sherlock manages to fellate that thing, but he somehow manages (probably with That Thing He Does With His Tongue™ which makes John scream, which sounds like he tied John’s dick into a knot with his tongue) to get a metric whale-ton of John’s hot salty cum from that giant fire hose. And _then_ he asks for a condom, which renders the entire operation moot because firstly, there are no five-metre-long condoms. Yet.

And secondly, he just swallowed enough semen to drown Carl Powers and _now_ he’s worried about HIV?

But in any case, they start making out again, and for some reason John has that obligatory moment of “oh wow, I can taste myself in Sherlock’s mouth” because we all know we taste like our discharges. Haven’t you ever nibbled a finger or two of yours? Tastes just like what you ooze out of your genitals, doesn’t it?

No, that stuff doesn’t taste like strawberries and cream. Shut up and let us continue.

So then John says, “bend over, Sherlock, and prepare for your vital regions to be dominated by my five metres,” which is totally not a John thing to say and in fact refers to a completely different fandom. But then again John’s ceiling-busting dick does rather come from that different fandom.

And of course Sherlock replies to that with, “oh yes, Jawn, stick your long man sausage into my glory hole and let me feel you. In my throat. Again. Except from the reverse.”

And John, being suddenly a conscientious man, asks if Sherlock has lubricant. Don’t be stupid, of course Sherlock does. Because he got some when he finally went out and got the milk.

Surely he got some interesting stares marching into Tesco’s in that coat and that scarf and demanding the nearest worker to show him where they sold their lube. But never mind that; his hopeless pining is being paid off and there’s a convenient bottle of lube on hand for John’s cock-a-doodle-doo, because obviously Sherlock’s secretly been fantasising about John buggering him in some convenient location in their flat (preferably away from the prying ears of Mrs. Hudson). He _is_ a Johnsexual, after all.

(The proper term may veer a little more towards demisexual, but never you mind.)

So John gets his machine slicked up and points said guided weapon of mass destruction at the target, aka Sherlock’s bunghole. He’s suddenly not a conscientious man; he’s suddenly as horny as fuck and thinking with his willy, and fuck the preparations, it’s not as if Sherlock needs to be stretched, right? His tight little arse is just an o-ring orifice, isn’t it?

Or perhaps the author does not want to consider the fact that Sherlock Holmes is a human being and thus has poop flecks up his ass.

“Just ram your weeping cock up my ass already!” Sherlock snaps. “I’m horny and I’m desperate for a ride on your disco stick!”

“All right, all right, one hot dickin’ coming right up!” John growls, and slams that red-hot rod of love straight into Sherlock’s tight virgin ass.

Then this miraculous transformation happens wherein John becomes the quote-unquote “seme” and Sherlock the “uke”. Because obviously any experience with smut that the author has had comes from yaoi doujinshi. Probably from that-other-fandom-with-the-five-metre-long-dick.

So of course Sherlock is crying his heart out because it hurts worse than driving a bulldozer up his ass and his tears are actually sparkles and he looks ridiculously adorable crying like a good little uke because –

“Oh John, it hurts! It hurts and yet it feels so good and I’m embarrassed!”

 _No shit, Sherlock_.

“Has anyone ever told you that your ass is scrumptious?” asks John, ignoring the author’s suggestion that he just call Sherlock ‘callipygian’ and be done with it because the author is writing this with a thesaurus on hand to describe the beauty of the entire scene. “It’s so cute; I could fuck it all day long.”

And then he locates the prostate and hits it full on, and with a dick like John’s hitting a prostate directly comes a conundrum: is Sherlock’s ass really the TARDIS?

After all, it must be bigger on the inside if a man with a dick the size of a bookshelf is capable of hitting a tiny gland located actually not very far from the anus in the body of an average male.

Obviously, because stimulation of this P-Spot is just so damn pleasurable for every male out there, Sherlock sees stars in front of his eyes and cries out a string of eloquently-worded curses. And John just grunts because he is the seme and has Chris Hemsworth’s body and must thus be construed as manly.

A couple more thrusts later, Sherlock is screaming John’s name and yelling something that sounds like “I’m gonna come!” out for just about all of London to hear (Lestrade lost a bet to the married ones that day). Then, out of the blue, John does a Thing With His Dick™ and Sherlock orgasms while blushing hard enough to fry an egg on his cheeks and crying heavily enough to fill a saltwater aquarium, and he ejaculates (obviously not in the Arthur Conan Doyle way) all over the nondescript thing that the two of them had been horizontal tangoing on.

And obviously, because it’s a sign of Twoo Wuv™ to climax around the same time that your partner does, John comes tumbling after and releases his mighty baby batter like, well, a fire hose.

Yeah, for a moment there Sherlock is floating near the ceiling, suspended only by a fountain of semen, and wondering if he can get John to repeat this for science.

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had,” says Sherlock, suddenly extremely maudlin (being hoisted into the air by your lover’s man-yoghurt can do that to you, apparently) as he collapses onto John’s chest like a good ol’ Victorian heroine.

“That was probably the only sex you’ve ever had,” John retorts.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to shit for a week,” Sherlock adds, tracing lazy patterns around John’s scar with his fingers.

“Take that to next month, because I’m hard again,” John replies.

And then nine months later, Hamish Watson-Holmes is born.

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is now available in Russian, as translated by KatiSark: [here](http://ficbook.net/readfic/785059).


End file.
